Creatures of the Moon
by Idolum
Summary: Roman had escaped Hemlock Grove to get away from everything. Wolves, death, crazy bat like hell demons. All of it. He didn't expect, as he looked out from his New York penthouse, that any of it would find him here. But it had. Nothing says Hemlock Grove like a half-dead Gypsy werewolf hanging outside your window.
1. Uninvited Guests

Roman

Roman entered the plush mirrored elevator and hit the button for penthouse. With a jolt the elevator began to rise smoothly. He checked his watch, almost midnight. As the metal box rose he checked himself in the mirror.

He pulled his tie loose around his neck. His shirt was untucked and the top two buttons were undone, his jacket had vanished somewhere in the night. His lips were cracked and his skin was looking more waxed and pale than ever. But what scared him, right into the marrow of his bones, was the hunger that lingered in his shadowed eyes. It had been weeks since he fed and he knew it. He closed his eyes and thought about why he had to be here. Why this was necessary.

After the events of the last few weeks Roman knew it was time to cut ties. He stood down as C.E.O of Godfrey Industries, retaining enough shares to ensure he'd never have to work again, packed up the glass prison that was his house, and turned his back of the people and memories of Hemlock Grove.

At Roman's request, Shelly had taken Nadia to his chalet in the Alps to raise her there. It had been an emotional goodbye, Roman would miss his sister greatly, his daughter even more so. But he knew deep down that he was not fit to be a parent. Shelly, however, was one of the most loving people Roman had ever met. He knew she would raise Nadia well. These, two of his most beloved, were better off without him, Roman understood that all he brought was death and destruction to those around him, and he thought the further away they were, the better off they were. The safer they were.

He turned the key into the penthouse door and pushed it open gently. Not bothering to turn on the lights, he walked to the bar and poured himself a large glass of whiskey. It had been a long night.

He'd gone to one of the classier nightclub's downtown. But found after an hour, the thundering hunger in his throat was too much to bear. He felt the pulse of the hundred or so clubbers, thrumming through their veins like trains down a track. Delicious trains that even now back in his apartment he was dreaming of ripping open and- he sighed, mentally shaking himself.

He'd spent the rest of the evening walking the streets, filling his lungs with as much air as possible. Being cooped up alone in his apartment was getting to him. He'd felt the same suffocating restrictions when his mother had imposed them years ago. Now, the restrictions were of his own making, for the safety of all New Yorkers.

Olivia, Roman was sure, was still skulking around in the shadows of Hemlock Grove, leeching off its inhabitants like the parasite she was. Roman tried not to think about what that made him. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, he thought bitterly downing his drink in one and pouring himself another.

He threw himself onto the leather couch that faced out towards the city below. People milled about even at the late hour. Roman hadn't thought the move through well enough, if Hemlock Grove was a packet of dry noodles on a warm night, then here, New York, was an all you can eat buffet of steaming food, wafting delicious scents into every pore of Roman's skin.

Where better to train his self-control than in a city teeming with destitute homeless and ignorant assholes. He scoffed at himself and took a sip of his drink. This was the same way he'd spent night after night since he'd arrive in the metropolis. Gazing out at the peasants and trying not to inflate his god-complex any further.

Then of course there was- Roman couldn't even think his name. He'd started thinking of him as just: The Gypsy. He found it easier not to think about him at all. The betrayal, hurt, and most importantly lust that came with thoughts of The Gypsy were too overwhelming for him to deal with.

Ice clinked in the bottom of his empty glass and he resigned himself to bed. He was half way across the living room when a misshapen hump smashed against the wall of windows. Outside, attached to a thick rope, a figure hung limply and unmoving. Roman strode across the lounge in two bounds. He pressed his face close to the glass. He saw his translucent reflection, the hunger from before replaced with pure perplexion.

The body turned slowly to reveal a face. It took Roman a minute to register what he was seeing, and by that time the face had revolved out of view. Confusion gave way to disgust, and underneath it, a ribbon of fear. Roman's heart thudded out of rhythm.

He sprinted to the roof. Perfect, Roman thought, taking the stairs four at a time. He was near dying of hunger and a bloodied man was hovering right in front of him like a hunk of meat dangled torturously above a tank of starving piranhas.

It wasn't just any ordinary body. Peter Rumancek could never be accused of being ordinary.


	2. God's Eye

Peter

It doesn't come back to him in a tidal wave like it does in the movies. Instead, Peter is drip-fed his memories slowly.

He shuffles down a long corridor lit with candelabras and chandeliers, it reaches for miles to his eye, doorless and endless. He knows where he is, because there's only one place in the world with this much pretentiousness: he walks the halls of the Godfrey Manor.

His eyes dart left and right. With each chandelier he walks under, he can see two more in the distance. He looks down; his feet are bare and almost completely covered by the plush purple carpet. He's wearing slacks and a starchy shirt.

"Hello?" he shouts. His voice echoes and comes back at him with the force of a thousand voices; he buckles under the noise and falls to the ground, covering his ears.

It's a dream, he assures himself, but he lacks conviction; the world in front of him is so visceral that it can't not be real.

He pulls himself from the ground, shaking. He blinks and the walkway rearranges itself and is lined with doors. Thick and made of the finest oak, Peter is sure. He grasps the brass knob of the nearest door and twists. The door blows open violently and Peter tenses.

Through the doorway is not an overly-comfortable bedroom as Peter had thought, instead the door opens to the roof of The White Tower. He sees the scene from above, like a bird stilled in flight, or a nostalgic god peering unto the mortals mercilessly.

Peter daren't take a step out of the doorway. Even from inside the warm hallway he feels the wind's sharp lick. He watches as Miranda falls with Nadia, only to be snatched from the air by the once-doctor-now-bat-demon.

The door swings shut in Peter's face and the scene is lost. He feels the same emotions flood him that flooded him that night. Fear, anger, pain, loss. They flit through him in quick succession, leaving him feeling sick.

He sways for a moment, looking at the closed door intently; his forehead slumped against the wood. A minute later the sweat that lines his brow causes his head to begin to slip, he straightens himself, ignores the nausea in his stomach, and presses on down the hall.

The next door is on the right and Peter takes a deep breath before touching the doorknob. It swings open easily. This time he looks into a forest clearing. The moon is eclipsed by a thick film of cloud. By the treeline stands the bat creature, holding Nadia in one hand and Miranda in the other.

Peter tries to close his eyes but he can't, they're being forced open by an invisible hand. He thinks about reaching for the door knob and slamming it shut, but his body is immobilized, he's helpless to watch as the scene unfolds.

From the other side of the clearing runs a memory version of Peter, followed by Roman, Olivia and Destiny. They sprit across the earthen ground, and Peter can almost feel the mud caking his feet. He watches as the memory Peter rips off his shirt and his skin starts to shed away.

Peter knows what comes next but he's powerless to turn away. The former-doctor-now-bat smiles. And even though Peter guesses the scene is about a mile below, he clearly sees the bat's shark-like grin stretch inhumanly wide before devouring Miranda's neck.

And then the group of four are on the bat, two Upir's, a werewolf and a witch. He hadn't stood a chance.

The door slides closed slowly, taking an agonizing minute, in which all Peter can hear is the tearing of flesh and the sickening crunch of bone under teeth. It's a relief to Peter when the door finds its home.

He doesn't hang around this time, he walks brusquely to the next door, on the left. The will to get the memories over with is filling him and overpowering the tumult of emotions from the first two doors.

As his fingers touch the third doorknob Peter gets a bubbling feeling in his chest, laced with guilt which brings on a bout of regret. He knows what's beyond this door, and he can't bring himself to open it. The door opens of its own accord.

Peter comes face to face with Roman, he stands just a few inches into the door; Peter suffocates the feelings welling within him. And Roman speaks.

"Well then Rumancek, do what you do best and fuck off out of my life."

Peter wishes he would say something, anything. But the words congeal in his throat and he gags.

"That's what I thought, Peter. That's what I thought."

The memory Roman winds back his fist but right before he lands the punch square on Peter's jaw, the door clicks back into place with finality.

Peter sighs and turns back to the hall. There is only one door left, straight in front of him. He throws a glance over his shoulder, back down the hallway. He watches as the furthest chandeliers and sconces douse themselves. As the blackout nears, the pace picks up and in only a few seconds, Peter is plunged into darkness.

The only light now, comes from the cracks around the last door. Its yellow beams cutting through the lake of gloom around Peter.

With a shuddering breath he grabs the knob and turns.

Although it starts in much the same way, this door, Peter realizes quickly, is not like the others.

Beyond the threshold the scene picks up where the last left off: with a raging Roman, his eyes dark and a hatred burning deep within them. Then the scene morphs into darkness and another one forms. Peter on a train, a small bag at his feet. The trend continues, one scene shattering into the next. Peter under the giant spires of New York City, Peter meeting with some Gypsy's, snorting drugs in a dingy bathroom stall, sleeping rough on the streets of Manhattan, playing poker and loosing over and over again, throwing his cards down and flipping the table.

A montage follows of Peter being beat ferociously in many locations and by countless hooded men. A Gypsy woman kicking him the stomach until he coughs blood. Somebody screaming at him asking him where the drugs were.

Peter watches all of this with a distant look in his eyes. Flinching occasionally, feeling the ghost caress of pain in his ribs, back, and face.

The fragmented scenes slow until they finally stop on one image.

Through the door Peter lies in a bed of crisp white sheets. His face is an unidentifiable mass of yellowing bruises and dried blood. He wears tattered and dirty clothes that make it look as if he's had a fight with Edward Scissor Hands.

Across the room Roman lounges in a chair watching the unconscious Peter over steepled fingers. Peter feels a bout of confusion, he doesn't recall this specific memory, he can't place it in his mind and his eyebrows knit together.

The Peter in the bed below twitches. Roman rises and moves closer to the bed, looming over the sleeping man, thus obscuring Peter's bird's-eye-view of the bed.

It is at this point that Peter falls through the doorway, pushed by a willful gust, and wakes.

His eyes snapped open and Peter took in the bleached glare of the hospital lights. He bolted upright as if struck by lightning and looked around the room. He was alone. Roman was gone. He imagined the smell of musky cologne, the same one that Roman used to wear. But Roman had left for the Alps, and even if he had been here, he hated Peter to the core of his being.

Roman was a hallucination.

With that thought, Peter threw himself flat onto the bed and willed himself dead.


	3. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

Roman

Roman left the hospital in a hurry, slowing down almost unnoticeably as a woman with a bleeding arm was wheeled passed him. He inhaled deeply and relished the salty smell of her blood. But he pressed on; striding out onto the streets of late night New York.

It was a different world at night. The sun paled in comparison to the lights of the city after dark.

He waited on the sidewalk, drinking in the atmosphere and thinking about the last three days. He'd watched as Peter tossed and turned in his bed, thrashing violently sometimes. Roman felt useless and soon that feeling morphed into anger, at himself, at whoever had hurt Peter, and at Peter for allowing himself to be hurt.

He waited and waited for Peter's advanced-healing to kick in, and after three long nights when it hadn't, Roman relented and took Peter to the hospital.

Roman was pulled from his thoughts about the Gypsy. A sharp prickle on the back of his neck alerted him to a spectator. He turned and sought the eyes of his watcher, but found none. The crowds that thronged were faceless and down-turned. Yet he'd felt the stare so completely, so much so that he wondered if someone were plucking thoughts straight from his brain.

Shaking off the feeling, Roman thought of his now-empty apartment; and a pang of loneliness twanged in his gut. To be lonely in a city thriving at all hours, that took a special breed, Roman thought bitterly.

He raised one delicate, pale hand and hailed a cab.

Roman swaggered into the club like he owned it; his back straight and a slight pout on his lips.

Roman didn't frequent The Hollows for the tacky leather couches stapled roughly to the walls, the drug-filled bathrooms, or even the cheap watered down spirits; no, he was more interested in the caliber of their clientele.

He navigated the swarm of drunk and high easily. With only the lightest taps on the shoulder, people would shuffle as far away from him as possible. Roman liked to think it was his predator pheromones, but it was most likely just them being polite.

The Hollows, Roman thought, had a particular air about it. It wasn't the acidic tang of desperation, or the lavender spritz of euphoria. It was the warm buttery taste of prey. And he wasn't the only hunter in this pit of easy pickings.

The V.I.P section was lashed off from the rest of the club, a security guard stood sentinel at the red ropes. He was a brute of a man, large, dumb and angry looking. Roman had found out after a bottle of vodka that his name was Seymour, and he was partial to Taylor Swift's unique brand of pop-not-really-country-but-still-wins-country-awards.

He nodded to Roman as he neared and allowed him passage to the corner of the club reserved for the most elite of New York. To the outside the V.I.P's of The Hollows were those with wealth, power and fame. But to those on the inside, their secret was far more salacious.

Five people sat in the V.I.P area as Roman took a glass of whisky: Sandra and Alexi, both of whom were Upir, Calypso the Succubus, Havier the Wendigo, and Jack, Roman's least favorite, a Djinn from the Middle East.

Roman saw through their guises just as the Gypsy had seen through his own, long ago.

"Hello, sweetie." Sandra hissed, stroking a hand down Roman's arm and planting a kiss on his cheek. Sandra had found him when he'd first arrived in the city, and introduced him to the underworld of supernatural New York.

Alexi shook Roman's hand, smiling. "Brother." Roman knew it was a throw-away greeting, but it reminded him of Shelly, and he hated to think about what he'd done, sending her away.

Calypso stared at him seductively from her stretched out position on the couch. She patted the space in front of her.

Roman chuckled and raised one smooth eyebrow. "Getting into bed with you is like getting into bed with the devil, Cali."

It was her turn to laugh, a sweet and slow noise. "The devil wishes he was this sexy."

Havier blushed when Roman greeted him with a wave, and ducked his head. He continued to play on his phone.

"Put that fucking thing down, Wendy, or your brain will melt all over the screen," this from Jack. Wendy was the taunt Jack used for Havier, the gay Wendigo. And Roman hated it.

Roman threw himself down next to Havier, causing Jack to fall from his perch on the arm of the sofa; he sprawled in the air and landed on the sticky floor with a thump.

"Whoops," Roman said without any sincerity.

After Jack regained himself, brushing himself off roughly, all the other V.I.P's were still laughing uncontrollably; even Havier, who had forgotten about his phone completely.

They weren't much, but they were all Roman had.

That was before the Gypsy had left a neat blood splatter on his window, anyway.

Roman tried to go about his business as usual, which consisted mostly of working out in the gym in his penthouse, and getting wasted. He'd go out for a walk in the late morning every day, just to taste the illusion of freedom. His skin had been getting more and more translucent the longer he refused to feed. If he hadn't been Roman Godfrey, billionaire playboy, he thought people might have commented on his appearance, but they hadn't, they were all too scared of his wallet.

During his walks he would wander aimlessly for a few hours in the warm rays of sun, hoping, but never expecting, to get a tan. He would tell himself that his route was random and any repetitions were a coincidence. He would whisper this lie into his mind every day as he drifted near the hospital.

Today, the sky was overcast and there was a bite in the air. He'd thrown on a pair of jeans and a hooded sweater in an attempt to look casual and blend in.

He was just about to pass the hospital for the third time that day when he froze, coffee cup in hand, and scarf fluttering limply at his neck.

Peter limped out of the glass atrium and began walking down the street, all the purpose in the world in his stride. He was wearing the same tattered clothes Roman had dropped him off in. Roman would have changed them, but that would have meant removing the old ones, and he was pretty sure that Peter would have died of embarrassment. Peter was slimmer than he'd ever been, and a dark wave had swept his neck and chin into a short beard.

Roman thought about doing a one-eighty and going home. But curiosity overruled him. He skulked a block behind Peter. When his enhanced eyesight failed, Roman relied on his improved sense of smell; following the trail of the Gypsy was easy.

Peter's personal-brand smell consisted of wood, vanilla, and just a hint of cinnamon. To Roman he smelled like a mouthful of feathery cupcake.

Roman wondered if his skin would be as feathery, but decided that it wouldn't, instead he thought the werewolf's skin would be rough and calloused, in that hard-working-proof kind of way.

Peter's first stop was a rundown Italian restaurant in Brooklyn. Roman waited outside for ten minutes, trying to look causal, leaning against the opposite building: a decrepit looking Macy's.

When he left the restaurant, Peter was looking shaken and weak.

Roman's coffee was cold in his hand, but he was too transfixed on Peter and his journey to care. He followed. This time, Peter boarded a bus, and Roman thanked the Upir gods that there was a cab waiting nearby.

The cabby seemed confused at first, to why Roman didn't just catch the bus.

Instead of explaining that he was following a guy he used to know and had saved a few days ago, a guy who hated him completely because Roman himself had told him to leave and then left him instead, Roman pushed the man's mind into just following the bus silently.

They drove for a dozen or so miles, until the concrete started to give way to a wash of green.

Peter got off the bus and began sauntering along the path.

Roman instructed the cab driver to wait, and got out of the taxi.

It was harder to follow now, with less people walking the streets, so Roman hung back.

When Roman saw it, he knew that's where Peter was headed: a small encampment in a field just a few blocks from the road. A Gypsy camp.

It started to rain and Roman closed his eyes. The feel of the water on his skin made him feel alive, like each drop contained within it the electricity to power a body. The air smelled like rain: nature and freshness.

Roman daren't go into the camp proper, for fear of being discovered by one of the other Gypsies. So he waited, watching at a distance, as Peter entered a particularly shabby caravan and the door closed behind him loudly.

It wasn't long before Peter returned. Roman bore on intently as he watched the scene unfold. First, the door to the caravan opened and then a beat after a flying form sailed through the air and onto on the wet mud with a splash. Following Peter were two huge men and a slight woman, all of whom were shouting profanities at Peter. Normally, such language would have made Roman hoot, but directed at Peter, he found them dull and infuriating.

Roman was staring and it was almost too late to hide. Peter jumped up from the ground and leaped in bounds to get away from the Gypsies. Roman's only choice was to bow into the covered bus stop and slink to the back. It was full and for that he was thankful. He pushed himself into the corner and pulled his scarf up and his hood low.

Peter nestled himself into the front of the shelter without looking behind him and Roman sighed with relief, thinking himself undetected.

A second later Peter became deathly still and then lifted his head, sniffing the air once, twice. He turned, and Roman looked to the ground.

Roman didn't risk looking up until the bus had arrived, the shelter had emptied, and the bus' sounds were lost to distance.

He pulled his scarf loose and ran for the waiting taxi. This time Roman didn't even need to push the driver, the cabby smoothly executed a U-turn and followed the speeding bus.

Peter's last stop of the day was to be at a lawyer's office in Downtown Manhattan. It was a tall building, sprawling hundreds of feet into the sky. Roman snorted and compared it to his own White Tower. Then realized the White Tower was no longer his, and frowned.

There were two bodyguards beyond the revolving door, huge mountains of men. When Peter went to pass them, they each took one of his arms and hauled him to the elevator, letting his feet scrape the ground.

Roman tasted fear on the air: lilies and ash. His last sight was of Peter wedged between the two men. And even from his distance Roman could see terror in the werewolf's eyes.


	4. The Abyss

Peter

Peter remembered his dream as vividly as any of his others, and it made him shiver. He walked out into the bright afternoon sunlight and sighed. His mind took him to better memories. Memories at this point, he decided, were too distant to be his own; changing under a blue moon, his mother and Roman watching, running through the forest gnashing his jaws and hunting rabbits, and even the thought of sharing a smoke with Roman atop the dilapidated remains of the Godfrey Steel Mill.

He turned towards more recent memories. Waking up alone. Dressing in the torn clothes he had clearly arrived in, with no few hisses of pain, and trying to sneak away before the nurses could bill him.

However, when he was caught by the charge nurse, a large black woman with a warm smile, she told him her name was Amanda and that he needn't have worried because his bill was all taken care of.

"What do you mean?" Peter had asked.

"I mean, young man, that you need to worry about getting better, not about money."

"But-" he tried to argue.

The woman shushed him. "Now get your butt outta' here before I decide that I don't want to see your sexy little ass leave." She began to laugh with high peaks.

Peter had grinned at her and wished her well.

That smile was long gone now, now that he stood outside the hospital with reality threatening to cave in on him at every angle. He scratched at his fresh beard, only inflaming the irritation.

He resolved himself with a deep breath and began on his way.

Before long he was outside Mama Bella's, an Italian restaurant, on the outskirts of Brooklyn.

He shuffled into the restaurant and was greeted by the smell of sour dough and burned meat. The bell above Peter tinkled and six eyes snapped to his small figure.

Half of the low hanging bulbs had blown out and the checked linoleum was sticky under Peter's shoes. The three figures were illuminated in a way that made them look like inhuman lumps.

A woman that looked older than time itself sat on top of the counter, her skin was deflated as a month old helium balloon. Two oversized men sat at a small table playing poker.

"Well, if it isn't little Peter Rumancek. We thought you'd slipped into the sewer for a family reunion! The Rat King, surely, is your father, no?" She smiled a hollow, vicious grin.

The two men stood, pushing the table to the ground and scattering their cards.

"Money. Now." The fatter of the two grunted.

"I-I don't have it with me right at the moment." Peter pulled at his collar, heat rising through him.

The men advanced on him.

"But I can get it!" He blurted. "The whole lot, and more."

The men looked to the woman for orders.

"Mamma Bella doesn't like being lied to, boy."

"It's true. I swear. I can get all of it in a few days."

"Bah! Why should be trust you? You forget your last visit?"

Peter didn't. He felt a ghost tickle where his left little finger used to be.

"People are talking. About a man, fresh in town, with more money that he knows what to do with." Peter Rambled.

"And? You don't even know his name. How are you to get the money?"

"We Gypsies have our ways." Peter pulled himself a little straighter.

Mamma Bella tossed the argument around her head and then spoke aloud, "More money than he knows what to do with ay? I'd know what to do with it…Fine. You have one week."

Peter nodded quickly. Without a word, and not leaving enough time for Mamma Bella to change her mind, he dashed out the door and onto the streets of Brooklyn, looking harried and scared.

After a short bus ride he arrived at the nearest Gypsie settlement to New York City. It had started to rain and it washed the smell of the pizzeria from his skin. He brushed down his clothes and readied himself by taking some deep breaths.

He knocked on the door of a tattered caravan, stood waiting for a moment, and was then dragged into a cloud of opium and tobacco.

He was pulled roughly into a seat and felt a jagged nail jabbing into his rear.

The woman that sat opposite him in the haze reminded him vaguely of Destiny. But that resemblance was destroyed when she opened her mouth, and a deep drawl fed out.

"Peter, Peter, Peter." She tutted. "What are we going to do with you?"

Peter twiddled his thumbs, looking shiftily around the caravan, he couldn't see either end, or anyone that might be waiting in their clouded depths.

"You come to my territory. You insult my people. You turn on a bad moon, beat my men, drink and drug your way into oblivion…No more, Peter Rumancek. You are banished from my lands. And if you return, well…" She leaned forward and her eyes blazed bright with blue fire.

He was picked up and hurled out the aluminium door, landing face-first in a puddle. The ground was slippery as he scrambled his way out of the settlement, not daring to look back.

There was no relief as he pushed his way into the bus stop. There was a plethora of scents in the air and they were almost overwhelming. Coffee, chocolate, the rain, other dogs and- Peter became a statue.

He inhaled deep, picking out one scent in particular. Citrus. Such a powerful blast of citrus that it was almost bitter. Blended finely with something else, something he'd never been able to place, a smell that defied explanation, the smell of Upir.

He spun, searching the eyes around him for the tale-tale silver glow of the Upir.

The bus sidled into the stop and reluctantly, Peter got on the bus.

Peter's last stop was the glass skyscraper he'd come to internally call the seventh circle of hell. The name above the door said Frederic Haulage Industries, but that didn't fool anyone in the know.

He was lifted off his feet by two guards. They were nothing if not efficient, Peter thought as he was lugged into the golden-gilded elevator. As the doors closed he hallucinated seeing the man he hated the most. And fear struck him in his heart, his secret fear that he buried even from himself most of the time.

The mirrored walls reflected a thousand Peter's, each more tired and drained than the last. When the doors opened again, he was relived mostly to escape his own reflection.

That respite vanished almost immediately as he came face-to-face with New York's drug lord extraordinaire.

"Mr Frederic." He greeted shakily.

"Pete."

Peter clenched his fists, he hated being called Pete.

Mr Frederick was a slight man, dressed in a fine tailored suit and sat behind a large oak desk. He pulled his glasses down as Peter neared.

"I'll cut to the chase, m'boy. It's not looking good for you." He got up and walked around the desk.

Peter was pushed into a leather chair in front of him.

"There are rules, Pete. And you know I like you, really, I do. I like the passion you bring to selling drugs and ruining people's lives. But a drug dealer who uses his merchandise instead of selling it, well, that's just not profitable."

Mr Frederick held out his hand, and one of the guards placed a nine millimetre pistol into it. Peter gazed out at the city behind Mr Frederick through the glass wall.

"Truly, I wish I didn't have to…"

It wasn't fear or anger that coursed through Peter as he accepted his death, but release. No more running. No more hiding like a scared animal. Even if the old Romanian tales weren't true about the life after life, Peter wouldn't mind. Anything was better than this. He'd stopped living and started existing long ago, and he was exhausted. He braced himself for the abyss.

Mr Frederick pulled back the hammer, and as it clicked, so too did the elevator ding.

There was a tense moment of waiting before the doors opened. Peter was sat with his back to the lift and couldn't see who'd interrupted his death.

There were two distinct steps, then one of the guards flew through the air and smashed through the glass windows. His screams echoed as he fell to the ground. The next second saw the other guard following his friend to a crushing death.

Mr Frederick looked up in total horror, pointed the gun towards the mystery attacker, and unloaded the clip. With each shot Peter's ears rocked with pain.

The echo's quietened. There was a long moment of silence before a slender white arm shot out and plunged into Mr Frederick's chest, withdrawing a still beating heart.

Darkness ate away the edges of Peter's vision, and he slipped into an abyss of sleep. Not the abyss he'd expected, but an abyss nonetheless.


	5. Fractured

Roman

Roman had worried it was creepy. For the second time in as many weeks he stood over the white bed and watched Peter sleep, he thought the gypsy looked handsome, asleep, with no creases furrowing his brow, and no harsh look in his eyes.

Peaceful, despite the regular bouts of terror the unconscious man flew into, thrashing across the bed, grunting frantically. In those moments Roman just stood still and watched, desperate to reach out and sooth Peter, but stopped himself each time.

When the wolf started to show signs of waking, Roman's mind spun in dilemma. Neither course sounded appealing to him. He dropped into a chair and put two slender fingers to each temple.

Deserting Peter at the hospital the first time had almost crushed Roman, but he'd known Peter was in safe hands with Amanda, still, that did nothing to quell his own self-hatred. And on the other hand, speaking to Peter again, after everything that had happened, that was enough to make even an Upir shiver.

During this lengthy debate with his own mind, Roman failed to notice the pair of sharp blue eyes that gazed out at him.

It was only when Peter coughed, that Roman jumped up from his seat and rushed for the door.

"Roman?" Peter's voice cracked with dryness.

What the fuck are you doing? Roman thought, one hand on the cool door knob, ready to run. You're a Godfrey. You were raised better. You should be better.

Roman ran a hand threw his hair and tousled it. "What?"

"Roman, turn around."

"No."

"Turn around, Roman. Now."

Roman spun to face Peter and pulled back his upper lip, bearing his teeth.

Peter stared, unfazed.

Roman saw his own reflection in the mirror behind the headboard of the bed; his eyes were completely silver, in a ghostly way, his hair was a mess and his teeth had snapped down into fangs.

Peter made a noise and Roman zeroed in on the thin wolf. "Get out!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Peter looked confused.

"I said, GET. OUT." Roman flung the door open and stepped out of the way as Peter scrambled across the room in his still tattered clothing, and out into the apartment.

The Upir slumped to the floor and started shaking violently. He heard the apartment door slam shut and rolled over onto his back. A few residual shakes later, Roman slid into a trance.

Images spun at him from every angle. A pair of outstretched, scaly black wings. His mother's fangs, sharp, and catching the moonlight. Peter's skin tearing off and the wolf bursting from the useless flesh. Roman saw himself, minutes ago, blood-starved and hollow. The last image, the one that echoed in his mind for days after, was of Peter, tucked up in the snowy bed, sleeping silently.

Roman came to and dragged himself onto the bed. He looked down at his torn shirt, and the bulge that burned in his Armani trousers.

He closed his eyes and willed the heat away. When it finally dissipated, he leapt up, grabbed his coat, and loped into the elevator. The doors pinged open when it reached the ground level.

Roman followed the smell of woodland vanilla; the smell of Peter. Preoccupied by what the gypsy had brought out in him, he didn't notice his pursuer.


	6. Park Lights

Peter

The cold was eating into Peter's bones and his shabby clothing did nothing to stave it. He clung to himself and rubbed his arms. The park was quiet and the sun had almost completely set, the sky was lit with purple streaks. The bench was even frostier than the air.

As he'd left the apartment building the doorman had given him a curious look. Peter had looked down at himself. Yep he'd thought, I look like a hobo.

Peter let his thoughts wash over him completely for a moment. Frederic was dead. That was one less string tying him to a black fate. And he could feel each of those strings. One to Mamma Bella, another to the Gypsies, and the last to Roman. Mamma Bella would want her money, and soon. The Gypsies weren't going to be as easy to smooth over. He tried not to think about it, but they were ever present in the back of his mind, lingering. Each blessed moment Peter managed to forget, one of the strings would pull him back to reality, back to his approaching death.

A cyclist passed him on the path, a reflective sticker on the wheels spinning until it was a halo of orange. The few birds that had been chirping fell silent and a squirrel ran through Peter's feet with a feverous speed.

"May I?" Roman asked, pointing at the empty bench next to Peter.

Peter shrugged and sighed, pulling his legs away from Roman's. Childish maybe, but Peter didn't want to have any contact with the feral Upir.

"I'm sorry, about before. I thought- I thought I could get used to the hunger." Roman dropped his head into his pale hands. Peter couldn't get the image out of his mind. The glassy silver of Roman's eyes. His fangs. Actual fangs. But more than that, he felt Roman's hunger like only the beast could. He's seen that look on his own face before. It was more than hunger, it was desperation. Like he needed blood that very second or he might just cease to exist. What scared Peter the most wasn't fear of Roman himself, but his empathetic thoughts towards the Upir.

"Well that was pretty stupid," Peter said. "Lion doesn't stop wanting flesh just because the gazelle got away."

Roman grunted. At least he's still articulate, Peter thought with enough sarcasm to sink a ship.

"What're you doing in New York, anyway?" Peter asked.

"You're asking what I'm doing here? You're the one that showed up hanging outside my window covered in blood."

Peter finally turned to face Roman, his face pulling into a confused frown. "What? I was in the hospital."

Roman ground his teeth. "I found you, tied to my roof. Someone had left you there. For me to find, presumably."

"Then?"

"Then I took you to the hospital. End of story."

"How did you know I was at Frederic's?"

"I followed you," Roman said after a long pause.

"You saved me," Peter said quietly.

"Couldn't just leave you there to die. Shelly'd be pissed."

"You saved me so Shelly wouldn't get mad?"

"You want to be dead? I'll take you back, I'm sure by now someone's taken up the gang empire. I can addle your mind so you can't move and they flay you alive. That what you want?" The feral nature was seeping back into Roman's face.

"No." Peter felt the void of his wolf. Right now it should be screaming out, sending adrenalin coursing through his body. But it was silent. Absent.

"Then try not to be so ungrateful," Roman snapped.

"Still think it's pretty weird that you were following me…" Peter said with a grin.

Roman pushed himself to his feet in a blur and started to walk away in long angry strides. Clearly he wasn't ready for humour. Peter wondered if he'd ever been ready for humour. The reflected back to other times, better times. When Roman took them driving in his convertible, skipping school and smoking on top of the steel mill. When Roman had laughed. Before the visions, before Vargulfs and Leetha. Back when life wasn't quite so complicated.

"Roman wait!" Peter shouted. Roman continued walking. "Roman. Roman I need help," it came out as nothing more than a whisper and it burned Peter's throat. Asking for help wasn't something he'd been raised to do. Not from an outsider. Especially not from an Upir. But Peter was running out of options fast, and this was his last chance. Peter's head drooped and sagged.

Peter looked up as a lithe pattering of footsteps approached.


End file.
